


sing to me, sweet mockingbird

by karauna



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Gen, M/M, Trigger Warnings, as per usual, by technicality really, idk it's a vibe tho, like everything i write, me being an awful no-good author, read the notes, read the notes. for the love of god, the boi and his birb, went from pg to lowkey horror kinda fast ngl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23558830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karauna/pseuds/karauna
Summary: Fire lives, breathes and burns. There is little it can touch without killing.Jaskier is a monster in every way of the word. No song he sings, nor chord he strums, will ever change the heavy truth.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Renfri | Shrike
Comments: 7
Kudos: 152





	sing to me, sweet mockingbird

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Graceful In the Morning Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23540716) by [Sippingspringtea (mylifesahell)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylifesahell/pseuds/Sippingspringtea). 



> go read the fic that inspired this bc it was rlly cool and i enjoyed reading it and like. honestly. it was just a good time, pls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: vague mention of child death, infidelity, child abuse and kinslaying. flame, fire and burning imagery are generously used.

There is a legend parents tell, of four siblings and their differences to each other. Once upon a time, they were born into a world rife with magic and fable:

The oldest was called D'ao, with the earth in their fists.

The next was called Djinn, with the wind at their heels.

Then there was one called Maride, with the oceans in their grace.

And.

The youngest was called Ifrit.

They were born with hunger in their soul, kicking and screaming, with flames burning at the tips of their fingers.

They burned everything they touched, turning oceans to deserts and forests to craters.

The siblings, after much sorrow, decided to lock them away, never to be found beneath the ocean and the sky and the earth. 

Ifrit is said to be there still, choking on the soil and roots D'ao smothers them with. They promise retribution and vengeance, maddened whispers slipping out of their prison and into the open air.

* * *

The world isn't a fair place.

When Jaskier is born, he's born kicking and screaming into a broken family within a house of glass.

His parents are vicious, contradicting things of nobility and they mesh together like ash and wind; a blinding vortex of dust as they clash against each other in a ceaseless battle. His mother holds him close, singing sweet lullabies into his ear at night, before scorning him in the light of day. His father pats his head, plaiting the chestnut hair into a new hairstyle every morning, before fleeing down the cobbled roads in the evening.

He comes back, lipstick on his neck, and it's the only time Jaskier ever sees him smiling.

Then his mother wakes up, and all he hears is smashing vases, loud voices and his father's silence.

His father is always silent, he discovers.

There is no joy in this house of thorns, only deathly silence and the wailing echoing off the brick walls. Jaskier hates it.

He makes a habit of slipping out whenever he can, guided into the forest by busy maids that work in his home. He spends the afternoon in the shade of a tree, hidden from sight as he nestles himself among the roots, dirt and worms, watching them squirm little holes in the ground as mud squelches up around the soles of his shoes. He listens to the birds and the bees, to the leaves fluttering above his head and the distant howls of wolves and wargs.

Swallows drop from their perches, small talons latching onto his fingers. The fantails look at him with twitching heads, pecking at the sunflower seeds in his palm. There's even a nightingale, and it stares at him with beady black eyes, tweeting like an angel.

It's from them that Jaskier learns about singing. And he _loves it_.

The lilting notes and the wordless symphonies are the first bits of beauty that he's ever seen in the world, and he _wants_ it. Jaskier wants to sing and chirp and tweet, weaving wordless tale after tale into the late hours of the night, evoking emotion and tears and laughter and _happiness_ \--

And he's just- he's so _tired_ of the _sadness._

He begs and cries and screams until the maids teach him about the alphabet, taking him into the furthermost room in the mansion as his parents' voices echo down the halls. They teach him about writing and poetry; about verses and symmetry, and things called vowels and consonants. They give him parchment and finely edged charcoal, running gentle fingers through his hair before shooing him into the garden. He sings to the birds, even as- one by one- they start to disappear as the seasons begin to turn.

Another morning trip to the forest, another bird missing on the branches. By the time he goes home in the evening, there's barely a handful left to say goodbye to him.

It hurts.

It hurts every time he comes back, only to find another of his friends missing. It's a blow to the chest, like a claw is digging into his heart, and-- and he hates it. One day, on the cusp of winter, all the birds are gone. 

Jaskier falls to his knees like a stone, pencil and notebook falling out of his hand. He tucks himself into the base of his tree, and all he feels is the ache of loneliness. There's a flutter of wings, the slightest displacement of air. He looks up, eyes red and puffy and _sore_ , and--

The nightingale is there. It flutters, singing every verse, and Jaskier feels--

He feels warm, and it's... _nice_.

Days turn to weeks, all in the same unfailing routine. On the worst nights of autumn and winter, Jaskier cradles the nightingale in his palms- carefully sneaking to the fireplace in his room and rubbing warmth back into its body. The months melt back into summer and spring, and Jaskier wakes up happy! Excited, even! The birds will be back, he can sing to them again, and his little nightingale will have friends again! He skips out the door, back to his dead-eyed father and his red-handed mother, and thinks about all the things he's looking forward to today--

There are a lot of things to be happy about today, he realizes. Jaskier smiles for the first time in weeks, because maybe hope does exist after all.

He doesn't realize that his father didn't braid his hair this morning, telling him to be careful with his words. He doesn't realize that his mother has a knife in her hand, and liquid fury dripping out of her eyes like rivers.

Jaskier runs into the woods, head-first into a bloodied knife.

Fryella Heljer Pankratz is a vicious woman, blinded easily by emotion with a possessive vindictiveness that could rival any sorceress. She is a force of nature; overflowing rivers and claiming forests and, once she's set off, she'll burn the world to the ground without a second glance. Her husband is an unfaithful swine, easily moved by the pretty barmaids in the taverns, and her _son--_

_-HER-SON-IS-THE-CHILD-OF-A- **WH** OR **E** -TRAITOR-TRAITO **R** -TRA **I** T **OR** \--JUST-LIKE-HIS-FATHER-HE'LL-USE-WOMEN-AND-BREAK-THEM-HURT-THEM-KILL-THEM-K **I** LL- **K** IL **L** -KI **LL-KILL-IT** \--_

He doesn't scream.

Jaskier dies, gutted on the forest floor, surrounded by singing birds and swaying flowers and a nightingale screaming in his ears.

Hope is cruel. Just because it is there, does not mean it will be kind.

* * *

"What would you give, little one, to watch the world **burn**?"

_Is Nightingale okay? Am I dead?_

"M **o** r **e**."

 _I don't want to die. Please don't let me die,_ _please please please don't let me die I'm scared, let me live i'll do anything please--_

**"More."**

_-please, mother didn't mean to kill me, but her knife went stab and it hurt and it hurt and it hurts and she killed me and she stabbed me and She killed me and Mother stabbed me and MotHeR KILLED ME, MOTHER-KILLED ME-MOTHER- **KI** L **L** E **D** - **ME-I'LL KILL HER-**_

.

.

**"V e r y w e l l , p r e t t y b i r d ."**

.

.

* * *

When Jaskier wakes up, the world is on fire.

The leaves on the trees are alight and the swallows are nothing but ashen bones on the forest floor. Molten iron is stuck to his fingers, leaving numb tracks of harmless irritation along his palms. There's a corpse on the ground, buried deep into a blackened crater that sparks with embers and cinders. There is a wooden handle clutched in scorch-ridden fingers, flames clinging to it like a stubborn twig.

He blinks. It has his mother's ring.

He blinks again. There's dust in his eyes. It hurts.

His nose is _blocked_ , and there's _something_ dribbling down his chin, and there's dust _everywhere_ , and his _mother's ashes are stinging his eyes and his birds are dead and his friends are dead and everything he knows is dead-dead-dead-dead-everything is red-black-orange-yellow-burnt-and-burning-burning-burning-buRNING **BURNING--**_

It goes like this.

Jaskier is _bent-breaking-broken-broken-broken_ and there's cinders in his hair. His tree is burnt, from branch to branch. His mother is burnt, from head to toe. His home is burnt, from garden to courtyard. He is alone in all senses of the world, burning and smoldering and cracking like the logs on a fire. He has nothing to his name, nothing but the bones in the pyre around him and the fingernails cutting bloody crescents into his palms. He has nothing, and he is _nothing_.

Or, it goes like this.

Jaskier is _broken-hurt-hurting-aching-bleeding_ and there's embers in his hair. His mother is dead because of him, burnt alive. His father is dead because of his mother, stabbed to death. His maids are dying because of him, choking on smoke. Everything he has ever touched, loved and cherish is dying or dead; because of him, in some way, shape or form. He is the monster in the forest, and he isn't _human_ anymore.

But, in reality, it goes like this.

Jaskier is _young-fragile-new-precious-adaptable_ and there's ashes in his hair. His family is dead, and all of his friends are dead with them. The women that taught him how to write are dead, and the cat that lives in the wine cellar is dead too. Everything he knows is dead, killed in a torrent of flame and rage and loss that makes him want to choke on his tears. He is a murderer, a victim, a monster, a child and nothing all at once.

He killed his mother. His mother killed her husband. Her husband killed his wife when he spent his wedding morning in the arms of another.

He killed his maids. The housekeepers taught him how to read, write and speak from infant to toddler. They smacked his hands with sticks when he gave the wrong answer, and threaten him with the whip and cane if he cried.

His home is nothing but smoke-billowing floorboards. His forest is nothing but a desolate wasteland, crusted in blackened wood and blazing leaves. He tries to come up with happy memories, where the sun is golden and the sky is cerulean and the smoke is in the fireplace, puffing out from a yellow-bricked chimney.

There's no surprise when he comes up with nothing. There's only a dull ache in his chest, and he comes to the realization that there's nothing to miss at all. 

It... doesn't hurt. But it eats at him, like acid and venom.

There's a sudden feeling of loss, where there's nothing but the wind howling through the hollow veins crisscrossing beneath his skin. There's water crashing in his ears, pushing at brain and overflowing out of his eyes. There's earth writhing beneath his feet, coming alive and making the world spin like a disc--

It's not fair. It's not _fair_. _It's not fair, it's not fair it's not fair it's noT FAIR IT'S NO **T FAIR WHY--**_

Everything stops when there's a chirp.

Reality collapses down like a veil of glass, shattering against the rocks and trees as that sound, _that single blessed sound,_ echoes in the stillness. Jaskier is frozen and there's ice in his heart, burning him alive despite the flames licking at his fingertips, and there's just the barest _sliver_ of hope that flits about in his chest. There's a chirp, a tweet, and a beat of song, and then--

-and then, somehow, he's suddenly not so alone.

Nightingale hovers in front of him, wings tipped in fire and golden veins streaking up her body. There are the beginnings of horns rising out the back of her head and her rib-cage is wrenched wide, lava leaking from her guts as her molten heat beats in time to his flames. Glowing talons, long and hooked and _deadly_ , latch onto his crumbling forearm fearlessly, her black-spotted feathers brushing against the open flames like old friends.

She stares at him, eyes bright and beak riddled in ashes, and she _sings_. It's soft and familiar, like the muddled words of an old friend through a muffled door. Her melodious trickles are replaced by a chaotic singing of emotion, bellowing notes and shameless _feeling_. It's life; dark and horrid, but beautiful in all the ways he never knew.

Jaskier listens. He listens, stutters, breaks and then- _and then--_

And then he cries.

Jaskier puts himself back together, shard to shard, piece to piece. He puts himself back together, fragile and bleeding, broken and healing, and he stands up. His knees quiver, the fire melting his skin recedes, and the ashes sticking to his eyes trickle out in salty streams down his cheeks. He lost nothing in this place; nothing but the right to call himself innocent.

Around him, the flames go out.

The wolves howl, the seasons turn and, in another part of the world, the flowers sway in a field of grass.

Spine straight, eyes dry and embers sticking to his clothes, Jaskier sets out to find that part of the world. Nightingale follows, singing to the heavens, about a golden dawn streaked with fire, bathing the horizon in the colors of sunlight.

* * *

" **Run** , sweet bird."

_I can't._

"Run, sweet one."

_I can't do it anymore-_

"You must, sweet child."

_Why do I have to run? I'm so tired..._

" **Run, dear heart, and do not stop."**

_But I just want to rest--_

**_._ **

**_._ **

**"R u n ."**

.

.

* * *

Jaskier runs. He runs from Kerack to Vizima to Rinde, Nightingale soaring above him like an amber protector against a blazing sky. They toe the fine line between the forest's edge and the dirt path, too wary of travelers trying to steal Nightingale to stick to it, but too cautious of their fire to return to the woodlands they thought of as home. It's a dangerous life to live, but that just makes it all the more adventurous.

They stop at inns and taverns, where they talk to farmers and barmaids. Jaskier learns about things like social cues and manners, about how to say the right thing at the right time for the right outcome. He learns about the meaning of greed in the name of survival, and how there is more to fear among humans than there is in the forests.

He learns about a monster in Blaviken.

"The Shrike, they call it! Strikes from the shadows, silent as the moon, then rips your head right off your shoulders!"

"What a pile of shit," the farmhand sneers, knocking his shoulder against the merchant's, "ain't nobody want to listen to your fucking ghost stories, Lian."

Lian scowls, slamming his mug back down on the table. "Fuck off, you wouldn't know your ass from your fuckin' shoes."

Blinking beneath the hood covering his eyes, Jaskier hops down from his barstool, cradling the small horn of warm milk in his hands. He fiddles with his fingers, hunching his shoulders in as he looks curiously at the rowdy men in the corner. He hears a shuffle behind him, the ruffle of clothing, and then there's a hand on his shoulder. He looks up, and the elderly innkeeper smiles back. "No good ever comes from the likes of them, kid."

He shuffles his feet, guiltily staring into his cup. "B-but... I-I want to know about the Shrike, baba."

The innkeeper stares at him sternly, hands tensing, before she suddenly unravels with a weary sigh. "Alright, _alright_ , they do anything stupid, you just call for me, won't you? I'll hustle right on over and break their pretty jaws for you, dearest."

Jaskier beams, leaping forward to wrap his tiny arms around her waist as his cup's contents spill against her apron. The innkeeper rolls her eyes, ruffling the boy's hair before carefully untangling him from her. He spares her one last smile before darting away, heedless of the warmth sparking beneath his skin.

He pushes the hood off of his head, unveiling dirty brown hair and muddy cheeks, as he grins guilelessly up at the trio. They stop and stare, brows shooting up their foreheads as they gape down at him.

"Err," Lian starts off, scratching at his throat, "brat, are you even allowed to be in here?"

"Baba lets me sleep in the kitchen," Jaskier holds his drinking horn close to his chest, sipping at it quietly. "She's my friend!"

Scoffing, the farmhand just rolls his eyes. "Only thing she's friends with," he grumbles, "is the devil himself. She's a bloody fiend in woman's clothing- I've seen her grab men twice her size, and throw the poor sods out the fucki-" He's cut off with a grunt as another man shoves an elbow into his guy. _"-Bastard!"_

"S'a'kid, Albel, watch your language, eh? You want Zuzanna to chuck you out next?"

"Sod off, Izaak--"

Scratching his cheek, Jaskier turns away from them and turns to Lian. He struggles onto the seat next to the man, and the merchant shuffles over to give him some more room as he finally clambers upright. "I heard you before," Jaskier starts off happily, cradling the warm milk in his hands, "talking about the Shrike! What's she like? She a princess?"

"Ain't nobody knows what the Shrike is, kid, 'n I doubt a _woman_ could do anythin' like that," Lian takes a sip of his ale, sneering at the bland taste. "All they know is that it used to travel 'round Mahakam, then disappeared. Now Shrike is payin' a visit to to other towns too, 'n it's a right mess--"

"Oi!" Albel jabs a finger at them rudely, drunkenly leaning against the table. "Y'ain't scarin' that kid with your Shrike shit, are you? It ain't fuckin' true, kid, don't worry 'bout it--"

Izaak wraps an arm around the farmhands shoulders and heaves him up to his feet. "Sorry, Lian, you know how he is. I'm takin' him before Zuzanna skins 'im, see you in the mornin'."

Nodding his farewells, Lian goes back to staring into the amber liquid of his mug. Jaskier glances up at him, wiping the milk off of his face with the corner of his cloak. He wonders if Nightingale is getting lonely in the kitchen, he should probably go out and check on her, but last time he checked, she was sleeping in the bread oven and got annoyed when he woke her up--

"Blaviken, kid. S'where you'll find her."

He jolts upright, fiddling with the handle of his cup. "Who says I wanted to find her?"

Lian smiles down at him, reaching over to ruffle his hair. "Y'ain't as subtle as ye' think, boy."

Ducking his head, Jaskier mumbles under his breath, "Gee, _thanks_."

The merchant laughs, bright and loud, as he climbs to his feet. He wipes off the bread-crumbs sticking to his breeches, and looks over to give the elderly innkeeper an amiable nod. Leaving coins on the table, Lian crouches down in front of him and digs around in his pockets. He pulls out a small satchel, holding it in his hands lovingly.

"It was my son's," Lian grunts out, "and then a pack of wargs got to him. S'been with me for years since, and I s'pose this is as good of a time as any to get rid of it."

Jaskier blinks owlishly. Setting his cup down on the bench, he steps forward, nearly buckling under the sudden weight of the deceptively tiny purse as its dropped into his waiting palms. "What is it? Does it have dragon scales in it or something?"

Lips twitching, Lian lets a rare smile stretch over his face. "Not quite, kid. Some crowns, some salves and a... a book."

"What kind of book?"

His smile turns melancholic, and Jaskier instantly regrets asking. "'Winter Wolf and Summer Bird', it was the only thing that helped him sleep."

"W-what's it about?"

"It's about two souls, deeply intertwined. The Bird loves the Wolf, and spends every autumn and spring singing ballads of their love."

Jaskier almost doesn't want to ask, _but--_ he wants to _know--_ "How does it end?"

The merchant's face goes blank. "The Wolf ventures out in autumn and kills them."

Flinching back, he feels the horror climb over his face like claws. "W-why?"

"Prey is prey, even when there is love."

* * *

"Dearest soul, you must run."

_But Baba said--_

"Please, beloved, listen."

_I don't want to run anymore!_

" **He's** coming."

_Who!_

"Jaskier **, go."**

_Where do I--_

**_._ **

**_._**

**" N o r t h , b a c k t o t h e b e g i n n i n g."**

**_._ **

**_._**

* * *

Nightingale hides in his cloak, a reassuring weight and scalding heat that should melt his skin. Lava slides harmlessly over Jaskier's arms, seeping into his flesh like water as they walk through the dark. It's a cold night; the wind howls like a lonesome wolf, digging hungry claws into exposed flesh.

He should be cold.

The stars hang from the sky like lamps, cold specks of light that glare down at the world beneath them. Sometimes, Jaskier wonders if the voice in his dreams are from the stars. Maybe the voice makes him special; he's always wanted to be special to someone.

Soft chirps fill his eyes, and a warm beak brushes against his neck. Jaskier looks down, meeting Nightingale's knowing gaze as he smiles weakly. "It's okay, don't worry, I'll be okay and everything's going to be fine." Burning amber eyes cut through him easily, and the bird wrestles her way out of the confines of his clothing. She clambers her way up his arm to perch on his shoulder, singing into his ears comfortingly.

Something in him uncoils and relaxes at the sound. Jaskier lets the tension bleed out of his back, pressing the side of his head against her neck.

She's been getting bigger, he's noticed. Once a little bird the size of his palm, she's grown to be a bit bigger than his head. Nightingale has been regaining her flight steadily over the weeks, growing used to the enormous, claw-tipped wings she's been reborn with.

Her control of fire, on the other hand, is... a bit messy.

Really messy.

She's set, like, two trees on fire. In the middle of a town-square. While hiding in his cloak. Needless to say, he didn't stay _there_ for very long.

Jaskier snickers, skipping along the forest's edge as he lets his fingers drag over the tree's rough bark. Nightingale tweets on her shoulder warningly, pressing against his head to push him closer to the road. "Don't worry so much, Gale! I haven't set anything on fire in _months_ , it's fine!"

She huffs, smacking her wing against his head. Jaskier whines, rubbing his scalp soothingly as he shoots a glare at her. "What was _that_ for?! I didn't even do anything!"

Nightingale warbles, deep and low, in her throat. She presses her beak against his head and, in a flurry of feathers and fire, flies from his shoulder and hovers pointedly above the dirt-path. Jaskier glares at her, crossing his arms against his chest as he pouts, "But we _never_ use the roads! Merchants! Bandits! Poachers! Remember those?"

She squawks. He sighs. _"Fine._ You're so lucky that I love you."

Jaskier walks towards her, carefully navigating through the roots and ditches in the meager light while Nightingale squeaks and trebles worryingly. He smiles up at her reassuringly, halfway across the plain when the sounds of feet against packed dirt echoes in his ears. He looks up, heart thundering in his chest like a titan, as something emerges from the forest. It's tall, black against the night, with a crest of white and eyes burning-burning-burning _-burning--_

-there's smoke in the air, rising from the floorboards--

-there's cooked bodies, hanging from the trees and smelling like seasoned steak--

-there's death and bones and burning and yellow and death and burning a _n_ d r _ed_ a _nd_ _death and burning and black and deaTH AND BURN **I** N **G** -BLAC **K** B **L** A **CKBLA** -_

* * *

**_._ **

**_._**

**"R u n , S u m m e r B i r d , r i g h t p a s t y o u r g r a v e."**

**_._ **

**_._**

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> my readers have trust issues at this rate lololol
> 
> this was my like. storyboard thing. can u see how well i stick to outlines  
> storyline:  
> -jaskier is lowkey a phoenix bc the gwent card for it is just too frickin cool for it to be 'high off ur ass' rare  
> -jaskier is a kid. literally dies, then comes back to life for REASONS I DONT KNOW IT DEFIES LITERALLY EVERYTHING--  
> -he comes back. doesnt rlly know whats going on. goes thru a phase of angst bc 'oh no my parents think im dead and everyone i know think im dfead and i guess i beTTER LEAVE LOL'  
> -he lives Life. goes to oxenfurt. there's a few times where he like. sets shit on fire. he blames it on valdo marx, tho lol.  
> -valdo marx gets pissed for the property damage bill. chases him out of oxenfurt, and jaskier just fuckin books it while his classmates laugh their tits off  
> -haha funny moments  
> -things go bad  
> -things go worse  
> -everyone cries including me


End file.
